2482. Creative Writing Class

Petra was so lucky to get into Ms Brignell’s creative writing class. There was a waiting list as long as your arm trying to get selected. All that Petra had done was to knock on Ms Brignell’s door and say “I really really REALLY want to get into your creative writing class.” And indeed she did.

The first lecture involved learning how to write an opening sentence. In fact Ms Brignell set an assignment. First sentences are so important. I want you to bring four opening sentences of your own making next time we gather.

The assignment seemed easy, but once Petra thought about it she realized how difficult it was. She spent the week thinking and jotting down and crossing out. In the end, Petra had four opening sentences and she was dissatisfied with every one of them.

The second class began. Ms Brignell began. “I don’t want to see any of your opening sentences. If you think they’re rubbish then they probably are.”

Petra grew to hate Ms Brignell’s creative writing classes. They were too hard. They were challenging and useless. She thought when she had signed up for the course they would spend their time writing poetry. Stuff like that.  This wasn’t creative; it was work.

1871. Good morning, Creative Writing Class

The Head of the Laboratory was an arch-bastard. His name was Regis. As his name suggests, he thought he was King of the Roost. He ruled the laboratory technicians with an iron fist. They hated him, but the laboratory had such an extraordinary reputation that everyone under the sun wanted to work there.

This was the laboratory that pioneered taking bones of long dead creatures, especially humans, putting them together, and bringing them to life. This might sound ridiculous but it is four hundred years ahead of where you, Dear Creative Writing Class, are currently sitting in your backward and immovable mind set.

Regis decreed that his bones should be reassembled and infused with life. He was not particularly enamoured with the thought of getting old, so he did himself in, and he left specific instructions that he was to be immediately reassembled.

I know what you’re thinking, Dear Creative Writing Class. You’re thinking that the laboratory technicians refused to put him back together. You would be wrong. Perhaps you’re thinking that the laboratory technicians muddled his bones up with those of a crocodile or something. You would be wrong. Perhaps they put his legs on backwards. You would be wrong.

No! What happened was this:

 

1725. Perambulators

Bronwyn and Myra belongs to the New Mothers Support Group. One of the things the Group facilitated was for young mothers to go for interesting walks together, chat away, share mutual baby problems, and push their babies in the perambulators.

Bronwyn and Myra lived in quite a small town, so it was logical that most days they joined for a stroll. Mainly they would window shop. Sometimes they would go to see things inside a shop but the bulkiness of the perambulators precluded many cramped shopping spaces. They had walked up and down the town’s shopping centre a hundred times. There was only one shop window they had never paused before: the Undertaker’s.

It’s hard to believe that anyone would put coffins in their shop window, said Bronwyn to Myra.

Go on! Be a devil! said Myra. Which one would you like?

How they laughed and um-ed and ah-ed! Bronwyn chose an expensive oak casket with elaborate handles. Nothing like going out in style, said Bronwyn.

Myra liked the pure white one. I can see a bunch of deep red roses sitting on top of that white coffin, she said. And within forty-eight hours…

That’ll be the bell, said the teacher. Put your laptops away, and I’ll see you all in creative-writing class tomorrow.